


Digoxin & Coniine

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Control, Dark Harry Potter, Dom/sub Undertones, Implied/Referenced Murder, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder Kink, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Undressing, a little dark, hit lists, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21725722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom was the only person Harry had ever met who made murder look good.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 134





	Digoxin & Coniine

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, this happened, I don't even know anymore.

“I like your jumper.”

Harry looked up, he hadn’t heard the door, but then again, the match was turned up quite loud. It was just the highlights of an earlier game, not a big one at that, and not even his team, but sitting in silence had made him uncomfortable, nervous even, forever waiting for Tom to get back, but now he was. 

Tom was still standing in the doorway as he looked over. He’d already taken his coat off and was in the process of taking his jacket off, because Harry had been left in charge of the apartment’s heating, and Tom always found his temperature choices insufferably hot, just as Harry found Tom’s preferred temperature to be somewhat reminiscent of a Russian winter. 

“You’re late home,” Harry said, even though that was obvious to both of them. Tom usually got back around seven, but it was already nine. 

Tom just smiled and walked towards the door on the other side of the room. “Well, there was a…” he said, disappearing into the kitchen, “…little extra work that needed to be done,” he continued, the sound of his voice was now echoing off the walls and back into the sitting room. Just distant enough that Harry had to turn the radio off to hear him properly, which, when he thought about it, was probably Tom’s intention all along. 

“A little extra work?” Harry repeated back, now into the silence, as sticky as it was endless. He wasn’t expecting a reply as such, merely an acknowledgement; merely Tom to look at him in _that_ way and confirm all his suspicions. 

That was the thing about Tom, ‘a little extra work’ could either mean signing off on some additional and unforeseen papers or, ending a man’s life and Harry would never be able to guess which one he had done by his expression alone, not when that was such a meticulously maintained facade. Though, he’d learn by now that there were _other_ ways of knowing how Tom had spent his evening.

For instance, if he was tired and uncommunicative, then it had probably been paperwork. But if he was buzzing, unable to keep his fingers still, and his eyes too bright, and he had this spark under his skin, then whatever had happened was vicious and violent, and had got him fizzing.

It shouldn’t have been attractive.

But it was. 

It _really_ was. 

Harry continued to watch the door, unable to keep still and practically holding his breath, whilst waiting for Tom to appear again. He did, though now without his jacket on and with a glass of white wine in his hand. From here, there was nothing especially… odd about him; perhaps, he was looser, his sleeves rolled up and fingers already undoing his tie, and, maybe, his smile was easier, lighter even.

But nothing _odd_. 

Harry licked his lips and tried to stop fidgeting; “how was it?” he said, doing his best to keep his voice smooth, casual almost, and not to give away just how jumpy he felt inside. There was no denying, either to himself or to anyone else really, that whenever Tom got an itch under his skin, Harry found it hard to resist him.

Maybe, it was just _knowing_ what Tom could do to people if he felt so inclined. That he was one of those _special_ people who knew what they wanted and knew exactly what they were prepared to do to get it. Then again, maybe, it was simpler than that, baser, as it were. Maybe it was merely a power rush; that thrill of feeling Tom’s depraved hands against his skin and feeling untouchable because Tom would never hurt what he adored. 

And he _adored_ Harry. 

Tom paused beside the dining table to hook his jacket and now his tie over the back of a chair; he was careful with his fingers, smoothing the material flat with his palm and making sure the folds were sharp with the pads of his fingers. “It was good,” he said softly before turning back to face Harry, “just a loose end, I _really_ enjoyed tying up.” He smiled as he said it, the words all holding just enough ambiguity to make Harry swallow. 

To make him twist his hands together in his lap as the coils that made up his insides began to twist themselves tighter together; pretty contortions that poked at his organs and made a want start to grow like a bramble bush right in the base of his stomach. 

Without really meaning to Harry pressed his thighs together and watched as Tom wandered over, his feet unnaturally quiet in the carpet and that smile still infused into his mouth.  
“Is that jumper new?” Tom asked, his nails scratching over Harry’s shoulder and catching on his neck, as he walked past.

His hand was cold, and the touch was firm, and Harry tilted his head back just slightly. For a moment Tom’s hand rested against the crest of his throat, his thumb pushing into the pulse. Harry swallowed and kept watching him; he could feel the buzz under Tom’s skin just like this, the magic was simply undeniable. It sparked and fizzed and was so unlike how Tom usually felt with that smooth as melted chocolate magic beneath his skin; when compared to that, this was more reminiscent of popping candy. 

“I thought I asked you a question,” Tom murmured, his hand sliding off Harry’s throat, and instead, plucking at the neckline of his jumper, before letting go altogether. 

Harry shrugged, really, it was an unnecessary question. The jumper _was_ new, and Tom knew that because that he’d been the one to buy it; just as he had brought most of this ensemble, and most of every ensemble, despite Harry’s, admittedly weak, protests. But that was another thrill, wasn’t it? Wearing what Tom wanted him to wear, doing what Tom wanted him to do, _being_ who Tom wanted him to be. 

At least to a point. 

Tom knew exactly where that line was, not that that had yet stopped him from pushing against it over and over; trying to make Harry snap for his own entertainment. 

And it had been entertaining, just not so much for Tom. 

“I like it,” Tom said, genuinely, as though he wasn’t complimenting his own taste in knitwear. “It suits you,” he continued, this time sitting down on the chair opposite, one leg immediately placed over the other and the wineglass brought up to his mouth. He swallowed, slowly.

Instead of trying to watch what was practically an indecent display, Harry cast his eyes down to his hands and concentrated on sliding the fingers in and out of the gaps between each of them. Though, he could still see Tom in his periphery. He could still see how he shifted, getting himself more comfortable with the rolling of his shoulder and the curving of his spine. 

“Though,” Tom said, interrupting his thoughts, “I’d prefer if you took it off.”

“What?” 

Tom smiled, the corner of his mouth pulling outward, and the hint of his tongue becoming visible for a moment. “I said, take it off.”

Harry swallowed. It wasn’t so much a request when he said it like that, with a forcefulness infused into every letter, but there was also a compulsiveness there too. Almost a dare to see if Harry would do what he wanted straight away, or whether he needed to get more _persuasive_. 

But, based on the tapping of Tom’s fingers against the arm of the chair, he was too impatient to start this game, if you could call it such, and Harry wasn’t going to deny him this early on. So, he reached down to the hem of the jumper and pulled at it. Really, he shouldn’t feel shy about this anymore, he was an adult, he played quidditch for a living, and yet, whenever Tom looked at him like _that_ and told him to take his clothes off, he felt like a gawky teenager again

Tom watched, taking a long sip of his wine and sitting back to admire the view; after a moment he, ever so casually, ran a hand through his hair, messing it up just enough that it somehow looked even better than before, curls falling in all the right places. They were complemented by the shadows of the room, the thick, warm light that highlighted _everything_. 

Tom looked so good. 

More than good, practically edible, especially when he was smiling in that way, where it was almost crossing the line into predatory. As though, since the moment Tom got through the door, he’d been slowly stalking him; settling him into this domesticity so he wouldn’t notice when he was about to strike. 

So, Harry was sure he had every right to be slow and self-conscious before the likes of that. With his fingers getting tangled in each other, Harry dragged the jumper up over his shoulders and over his head, before dumping it in a pile on the floor. Despite it being hot in this room, he still felt a chill, as though the cold was coming from inside him and digging its way out. He kicked the jumper further away. 

“Now, don’t leave a mess, Harry.”

Harry swallowed. 

Without looking over at Tom, Harry stooped down to pick up the jumper from the floor and fold it, before laying over the arm of the sofa. The overall result was nowhere near as neat as when Tom had folded his clothes, but it was passable, and Tom made no further comment about it.

Instead, he seemed to be distracted with passing his eyes, almost clinically, over each and every part of him. Harry couldn’t help but flush the longer that Tom’s gaze lingered on him, examining each crease in his t-shirt, and how tightly it clung in some places, before hanging loose in others. 

“You look… good.”

And Harry found himself flushing harder, for there was something entirely shameless in the way that Tom just kept watching him. But then again, he shouldn’t exactly be surprised, Tom had never made it a secret how much he liked Harry; how much he liked to touch him, to grip at his shoulder or wrap his hands around his waist, like a snake that kills via constriction.

Tom wetted his lips. 

“But, you know,…” he said casually, as though this was anything other than what it was, “…I’ve never liked that shirt.” He paused then, for one, _long_ , moment; enough that Harry squirmed in his seat, squeezing his thighs and scrunching his toes. They both knew what was coming, but Harry couldn’t do anything until Tom said so, and Tom was obviously feeling a little sadistic. Clearly, whatever he’d done this evening hadn’t quite hit the mark in terms of satisfaction. 

“Take it off,” Tom murmured eventually. 

And Harry swallowed down the lump his throat or, at least, tried to. He removed the shirt. Pulling it up over his head with the same lack of finesse that he had done with the jumper; though this time he lingered even longer before he pulled his head out. His heart was thrumming too much and those brambles in his stomach were crawling up through every blood vessel, scratching and scraping until he was burning under his skin. 

“Now, stand up and come over here,” Tom said, becoming more comfortable with the demands, each rolling off his tongue with more ease than the last; power, particularly power over other people, was, after all, such an intoxicant.

While avoiding his gaze, which Harry knew was the ultimate aphrodisiac to attention-seekers, he stood up, and took the couple of steps forward; his footsteps just as muffled as Tom’s had been, to stand in front of him. When he was there, Tom tilted his head back a tad, a slant that was so slight but somehow conveyed so much power. His eyes continued to dip over him like a predator might survey a herd of prey, searching for that one that would become the target for the chase, and ultimately would become the kill.

Harry knew there was a pinkness impressed into his skin; a flush, mottled like ivy running from his shoulders right up to his cheeks, and that every part of him was a little too hot just from being watched. But he also knew how _intently_ Tom was watching, and how carefully he was breathing; a touch _too_ controlled to actually be a natural rhythm. 

Tom wanted him. 

Though, for the sake of performance, Tom continued to sit still, or at least, relatively so. One hand still stroking up and down the stem of his glass, the other one continuing to tap incessantly against the arm of the chair, as though there was something inside him that kept him from being truly still. Almost like live wires were in his nerves and a current was cruising through his bloodstream; it culminated in his eyes, this electricity sparking through them like gold fireworks in a night sky. 

“Now,” Tom said softly, taking his time to spread his legs just wide enough to be suggestive, “whatever should I do with you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Out of common courtesy, this is probably going to get a continuation.


End file.
